While the Sun Shines
by Nathaniel Cardeu
Summary: The Auror's new summer initiative is not going down well with everyone... especially when it interferes with summer fun (Rated M for language) Disclaimer: Inspired by a conversation with a friend and by a certain war film - no copyright infringement is intended; similarities to the film are deliberate parody and purely for entertainment purposes! i.e please don't sue me :p


The summer's day, much like those that had preceded it, had been warm and dry. Light, wispy clouds floated gently across the bright, azure sky, as the afternoon sun slowly slipped towards the edge of the world once more. Sunset was still a few hours off but the harsh glare of the sun was now muted and the relentless heat was beginning to release its grip on the country.

Darker clouds were gathering in the distance, plotting on the western horizon, and giving a hint of the weather to come; the weather witches had predicted thunder. A summer storm was brewing and many people were hoping that it would lift the miasma that swamped the mind, especially at the height of the day, when temperatures were topping thirty degrees centigrade; something your average Briton was generally not used to!

Outside of London the air was clearer, with less of the smog that choked the lungs. Rolling fields, covered in long grass, white and pink clover and several cows—calves at their sides, peacefully grazing, or laying down in the sunshine—surrounded a large field, hemmed in by trees.

"Pull!"

The wide field was a beautiful, vibrant emerald and the radiant, colourful wild flowers scattered through the grass were heavy with pollen. Their scent filled the air, bumbling bees bobbing lazily from stem to stem on their ceaseless mission.

In the evening the grass would be made wet by the late dew, but for now it was bone dry. Between the stems of grass, the field was hard baked, the earth cracking for want of rain. Dandelions swayed and nodded in the gentle breeze that carried a faint hint ozone and rain. A storm was definitely on its way.

"Pull! Put some effort into it!"

To one side of the field were the only non-insect signs of life, and the source of the shouting.

A wooden wall—over ten foot wide, made of horizontal slats with small spaces between them—dominated the area. On one side of it a large net was staked out, just above ground level. On the other was a metal bar, supported by two wooden posts. Beyond the three obstacles was a straggling line of men and women, dressed in shorts and t-shirts, sweat showing through the material and dripping down their skin as they exercised; some were doing push ups, others sit ups, and still others running on the spot. A few simply lay, exhausted and gasping for breath.

On one side of the wall, just dropping to the ground was a tall man with an unruly mop of black hair. He turned to one side and vomited noisily, wiped his mouth, then fell to the ground in front of the net. Slowly he crawled underneath, pulling himself along with trembling hands.

A blond man, sweating profusely, staggered across the grass between the bar and the wall. Reaching it he paused, staring upwards in dread, before starting to ascend slowly. Behind him, a rotund man—his flaming red, receding hair slicked to his forehead with sweat—hung from the metal bar, desperately trying to haul his bulk upwards to complete a pull up.

"Pull! One for the Ministry!" yelled a woman with wild, bushy hair, carrying a short stick in one hand and standing nearby. Her face was twisted in anger as the poor man desperately slid his chin over the bar, immediately slipping down and hanging by his arms again.

"One for Hogwarts!" she screamed at him. The man's eyes practically bugged from his face and the tendons strained in his neck. "Pull! Pull, you fat bastard!" Try as he might he couldn't get any closer than halfway and dropped, defeated, to the ground. "Guess Hogwarts won't get theirs then! Move it, Weasley! Get your arse up that wall! Go, go, go, go!"

"Bla' hell, H'mione!" Ron Weasley gasped, hauling himself up to his knees and trying to crawl towards the next obstacle.

"MOVE!" As Ron finally gained his feet and staggered off, Hermione Granger quickly cast her eye over the rest of her class. "Finnigan! I said 'give me twenty _sit ups_!' Not 'lay on your back and cry like a baby!' Potter! Get up here and give me some damn pull ups!"

Hero of the War, Order of Merlin First Class, and The Chosen One, Harry Potter, stopped running on the spot and staggered towards the pole. Leaning against the wood posts he gasped for breath, taking advantage of the blessed lull as Hermione turned her back on him to scream at the blond man at the top of the wall.

He had reached the top and was struggling to swing his leg over, but just didn't have the muscle strength left in him to finish the manoeuver. Hermione stalked towards the wall, her hair crackling in anger. Ron, just starting his climb, saw her coming and redoubled his efforts, his face twisted in sudden terror.

"What in the name of all the magic in the universe are you doing, Malfoy? Are you trying to climb that fucking thing, or hump it?"

Draco Malfoy, exhausted, sweaty and—like most of the others in the field—rather overweight, stared myopically down at the small woman and tried to speak. "We've been going for a fucking hour, Granger!" he finally choked out. "I'm dead on my feet!"

"What's your fucking point? This program is supposed to be getting you namby-pamby 'the War is over, we don't have to exercise' lazy fuckers, back into some kind shape, other than round! You're supposed be Aurors! The Wizarding world's highly trained and deadly police force! How the fuck are you going to catch an escaping criminal, if you collapse of exhaustion after a two minute foot chase!?"

Malfoy dashed sweat from his eyes and continued to stare at Hermione, his mouth hanging open and eyes glazed over. He barely even seemed to notice as Ron threw himself over the wall, lost his grip and then slipped and fell with an undignified squawk to the ground below. The red-head lay there, groaning in pain. The tall man, under net, appeared to have passed out, and lay unmoving.

"Are you quitting on me, Malfoy? Well, are you?!" Hermione glared up at the blond aristocratic wizard, whose body refused to move. "Then quit, you slimy fucking pointy-faced piece of shit! I'll happily report this back to your boss, and you'll be back here, next week, for an extra beasting!" Spittle flecked the furious looking witch's lips as she sent a blast of energy from her wand, past Malfoy's head. The wizard ducked the blast, sliding down and nearly falling.

"Get off of my obstacle!" Hermione shrieked at him. "Get the fuck down off of my obstacle! You sicken me, you little maggot!" she continued as Malfoy struggled to make his way back down the way he had come up.

It was then that Hermione noticed the man under the net. "Longbottom!" The scream jerked Neville's head upwards and he flailed about in panic. "By the Gods of Magic, if you don't get your fat arse out from under that net in two damn seconds, I swear that I will stick a bolt of energy up your arse that's so fucking strong, you're going to think Thor him-fucking-self is trying to butt fuck you!"

As Neville started to move again, a whisper of magic grabbed Hermione's attention. In a flash she spun around to where she had left Harry. Instead of the Chosen One, struggling to do pull ups, she saw the Boy Who Lived, floating away into the air, hanging underneath his Firebolt with one hand.

"Harry Potter! You get your arse back here right now and give me some damn pull ups!"

The messy haired wizard smiled tiredly to himself, casually stuck two fingers up at his best friend, and let his broomstick carry him over the trees and into the sinking sun.

Yes, this would cause him no end of problems at the Ministry. Yes, he would probably be joining Malfoy for an extra 'beasting'—as Hermione called it—next time, but he found he just couldn't care less at the moment. His wife was at home. His kids were at home. And so was his comfortable lawn chair and a cold glass of Seamus Finnigan's home-made Irish cider.

It was the middle of August and summer—specifically the British summer—was short lived and mercurial with her whims. So far, the weather had been fine and hot, with day after day of clear blue skies. There was no guarantee that this oncoming storm wasn't going to signal the end of the nice weather though.

Taking one last look at the field, he saw the furious figure of Hermione, stood with hands on hips, staring after him. Behind her, on one side of the wall, lay Draco Malfoy, throwing up. On the other side of the wall lay Ron, seemingly sobbing in pain. The rest of the class appeared to be in various states of agony and exhaustion. Yeah, he had made the right decision!

He intended to enjoy what potentially little summer time there was left with his family, not sweating in a field with the rest of his work colleagues! Make hay while the sun shines, he thought to himself, and he was certain that he wasn't going to go back to Hermione's Boot Camp, for as long as he possibly could!

The End

Written for imtrouble, after a conversation about a woman and her first experience of a local boot camp class. This one's for you, Lou :)


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